Sunday, July 6

dawn, at last

I awoke this morning, after not quite enough sleep, with Sebastian's face pressed close to mine. He was hungry and wanted to make himself PB&J. I got up from the couch where I'd spent the night (we're night-weaning) and got him the jar of jam and a small packet of peanut butter we'd squandered from one place or another. He only needed a little help getting things open, then he set about his mission.

While he made his breakfast, I nursed my hungry baby, each sip relieving the ache of my rock-hard chest. They played peacefully for a few more minutes while I convinced myself to get up and make some coffee. Rigby is at the puppy stage, where she crawls right to my feet wherever I am, nuzzles my toes and looks up at me with her beautiful doe eyes.

It is one of those cool summer days, where the weighty heat of July seems almost impossible. A good day for cooking and baking - and I have a pristine kitchen to do that kind of work in. My freezer is empty, save for some convenience food (nuggets, fries and a stir-fry kit) and a placenta. My fridge is full of food that is making a bee-line to rotten, a testament to my best intentions. Today, I will clear it out and salvage what I can. Not a huge fan of making a whole lot of food on one day and then re-heating it later, but from where I am standing, it seems like a pretty smart course of action. Especially when I consider that a little warmth in the house would be welcome.

I am filled with a tentative optimism, a sense that none of this is out of my reach. I had a conversation with my insecurity last night, it has agreed to listen when I tell it to shut up. I am not sure I trust it, given that it has a history of deception and manipulation, but what choice do I have?